But you know what I hate? Fast food workers (the ones that stand behind the counters) that expect tips. Like when the tip line is on the receipt when you pay with your credit card, and if you don't want to tip you have to write a big fat zero and feel like a total dick, or else be afraid they will add it in.
I have to preface this by saying: when it's called for, I am motherfuckin'
Captain Tipping, simply because (a) the people have increased my enjoyment of a situation (b) I know they make, pre-tips, a wage so skint it ought to be fuck*ng
illegal, and (c) I am amazed, really amazed, that the people do so for forty-plus hours a week whereas I could do it for, perhaps, three
tops before putting a bread knife right through someone's selgiraffe, flapping hand.
But yeah, I do feel uncomfortable and irritated when I'm prompted to tip in an unorthodox situation. Example: I call the Chinese take-out joint, place an order, and go and pick it up myself. The beige ballcap-wearing, jaw-jutting fratty drones behind the register (and ain't that some cognitive dissonance - the people handing over my ethnic cuisine are probably named Thad and Trey) actually have the audacity to have placed a fuck*ng
tip jar there, all decorated all sincere-like (most likely by some artsy chick they met over a Solo cup full of Milwaukee's Best in exchange for like thirty minutes of attention) with smile-faces and nudgy-nudgy doodled arrows. I've got half a mind to say,
look, dipshit, anyone who comes in here is
picking up their own damn food, which basically makes you like any other retail jockey. I've worked more hours in retail than you've spent paying attention in English class, you callow little shit, and I never once expected nor received a tip.
Pat Reynolds? Fuckin'
amateur.
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Topic: 4/28/05 - You're the real thing, asshole! (Read 11562 times)